Too Late
by TheLoneTraveler
Summary: Sherlock was too slow, too late.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters contained. Sherlock and the related characters belongs to its respective owners. This was written just for fun. I do not make any profit off this story.**

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><p>This story was inspired by a piece of artwork on tumblr called "Hesitate" by thebritishteapot. This hasn't been beta read. Reviews and criticism are welcome, I just ask that you keep your comments respectful and comprehensible. Sit back, relax, and enjoy! (And probably cry).<p>

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><p>"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."<p>

"Alright." Sherlock watches as John goes back to where he was standing.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?" Sherlock jolts as he hears a shot ring out. John collapses to the ground.

"John?" Sherlock softly cries into the phone. "John!" Sherlock yells this time. He throws his mobile aside and runs back inside. He leaps down the stairs as fast as his long legs will take him, but it's still too slow. _John can't be dead. I need to hurry, he needs me. _After what seemed like forever, Sherlock finally made it downstairs. He ran outside, setting off an emergency exit alarm. There was already a gurney being wheeled over to where John was.

Sherlock ran into the street and was almost hit by a car. He kept running, he had to get to John. There were doctors and nurses surrounding the body. Sherlock pushed them out of the way, as if they weren't there. He saw John's body. For the first time in his life, Sherlock's mind went blank. Not a single thought passed through his hard drive for a good ten seconds. There was no point in trying to check for a pulse, it was a miracle that John had as much of his face left as he did. Sherlock could taste the bile in the back of his throat as he tired his hardest not to vomit. He was used to bodies, even gory bodies like this one; they never caused this sort of reaction, but this wasn't just some body, this was John's body. This was John.

As quickly as his thoughts stopped, they returned. Mrs. Hudson, he had to check on Mrs. Hudson. As much as he didn't want to leave John, he had to. He hailed a taxi and took it to Baker street, fidgeting the entire way.

He ran out of the cab, not stopping to pay, and threw open the door.

"Mrs. Hudson!" She wasn't in the kitchen. He went back to the entrance and saw her lying in the middle of her living room surrounded with blood. "Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock ran over to her body and checked for her pulse. Nothing. He scooped her up into his arms and cradled her body as he cried into her hair. He suddenly remembered Lestrade and started searching his pockets for his phone. He didn't have it. He laid Mrs. Hudson's body back down on the floor and ran into the kitchen to use the landline.

He punched in Lestrade's number as fast as he could. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. "Come on, come on pick up." Four rings.

"Detective Inspector Lestr-"

"Lestrade!"

"Sherlock?"

"Lestrade, listen to me very carefully."

"Alright, I'm listening."

"Someone is going to try to kill you."

"Kill me?"

"Just shut up and listen will you. Someone in your office. Someone new, someone you haven't seen before. A desk jockey maybe."

"Alright hold on, Sherlock." Sherlock could hear the conversation on the other end.

"Oy, can't you see I'm on the phone get out of here."

"But, Sir-"

"Whatever it is it's not our division, now get out of here. Oh, shi-" Sherlock heard a gunshot through the phone. He dropped it and it shattered onto the floor.

That was it. All his friends were dead. He slowly sunk down onto the floor and leaned against the leg of the table. He sat still as a statue, silently crying, his only thought being that he wished he hadn't taken so long talking to John. They were dead and it was all his fault.

There were police sirens in the distance, getting louder with every passing second. There was a loud bustle in the direction of the entrance.

"In here." One of the paramedics said, finding Mrs. Hudson's body.

Sherlock didn't hear his name being called. A pair of legs, clad in black trousers, stood in front Sherlock. He didn't bother looking up. DI Dimmock he assumed, or even worse, Anderson. The figure knelt down in front of Sherlock. It had a white sling on its arm. A hand on his shoulder finally brought Sherlock out of his daze with a gasp.

He went wide-eyed at the person squatting in front of him. "L-lestrade?" Sherlock managed to sputter out. "But, how? I heard you get shot!" It seemed that Sherlock's brain was working at a mile a minute again, though not back up to deducing levels.

"Nah, you heard me get clipped in the arm, hence the sling. I'd probably be dead if it weren't for you telling me that somebody was trying to kill me. Saw him pull the gun and dodged out of the way just as he shot at me. I pulled out my gun and shot him dead." Lestrade gave Sherlock a weak smile and stood back up. "Come on, let's go." Lestrade offered Sherlock his hand. Sherlock took it and stood up.

"Where are we going?"

"'Where are we going' To the hospital, that's where we're going."

"Why?"

"Look at the state of you! Can't even figure out why we're going to the hospital. You're in shock, Sherlock. For the first time in your life, you are acting like a normal person." Lestrade led Sherlock out of 221b and into the ambulance. "I'll meet you at the hospital." With that, Lestrade closed the ambulance doors and it sped off to the hospital.

Sherlock didn't see Greg again until his funeral a few weeks later. A sniper took him out after he had put Sherlock into the ambulance.

Sherlock managed to go to all three funerals, but never said a word. He stayed at John's funeral until long after he was buried; only leaving because Mycroft dragged him away.

Sherlock spent the rest of his days at the Diogenes Club, never returning to the flat. He would sit there for endless hours, fingers steepled under his chin. Mycroft retrieved Sherlock's violin and skull, as well as one of John's jumpers. Sherlock didn't seem to react to their presence at all, but Mycroft saw as Sherlock slowly took John's jumper into his hands when he thought Mycroft wasn't looking.

Molly would sometimes try to visit to help Sherlock. She wasn't allowed into the club at first, it was only for men after all, but a phone call to Mycroft and setting up appointments ahead of time eventually got her the permission she needed. She was only ever allowed into the Stranger's room for obvious reasons. After one particular session, Molly could have sworn that she heard Sherlock whisper, "Thank you, Molly," as she was leaving.

Mycroft never heard another word out of his brother's mouth for as long as he lived. No snide remarks about his weight, no more brilliant deductions which only Sherlock himself could make. It was disheartening to Mycroft to see his little brother waste away like this, but he couldn't blame him. There was no way anyone, not even Mummy, would be able to help him not blame himself for the death of all his friends; after all, he was too slow, too late to save his friends.


End file.
